


Kyrios

by tibeyg



Series: Pornalot 2017 [1]
Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alexander the Great AU, Battle of Gaugamela, Imperialism, Implied Past Underage, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, lots of olive oil ;) ;), references to Plato's weird-af soulmate theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibeyg/pseuds/tibeyg
Summary: Arthur, victorious, retires from the battlefield. Merlin awaits.





	Kyrios

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pornalot 2018 Challenge #1: Conquest.
> 
> Apparently some people thought this was good enough to vote to 2nd place? Friends - I am flattered.
> 
> I've used some historical terminology here; you can hover for the definition.

‘All of Asia,’ said Arthur. ‘ _Mine_.’ He seemed untouched by battle when he tossed off his helmet, arrogant with victory, shaking out imaginary dust from its trailing red plume. He always insisted on standing out in battle, streak of red and flash of bronze, flared gold in the sun. Ahorse and leading right of the  phalanx, always first to dive into the oncoming ranks, always last to leave the field – gathering his surviving men, slaying the remaining foes in a deadly swirl of metal and leather.

He made fear and pride war in Merlin’s heart. Seeing his indomitable king transforming killing into an art, battle into a craft, empire into an oeuvre. Sacrosanct son of Zeus, son of Ammon, reaching for apotheosis one swordstroke at a time. 

But he was also Merlin’s dear love, the one whose veins had released blood, not ichor, when he skinned his knee on the training ground before the razor had ever touched their cheeks. His heart could not rest until Arthur, glowing with the glory of triumph, returned to his arms.

Merlin, having stripped his armour off already at the first opportunity, watched on as the squires lifted garment after garment from Arthur. When they had first joined the army under Arthur’s father, they had the tent to themselves and had divested each other of the armour.

‘Arthur: King of Macedon, Hegemon of Greece, Pharaoh of Egypt, King of Persia, Lord of Asia.’ Merlin tested the titles on his tongue.

‘It sounds wonderful, Arthur,’ one of the squires enthused. Mordred. Merlin misliked the eagerness in his eyes.

‘Are you done? Leave us,’ he said shortly to the squires, and they gathered the armour and scurried out, leaving only Arthur in the light chiton he had worn to keep the leathery chafe of the linothorax at bay. 

‘When will those idiots realise that you have no time for an _eromenos_ ,’ Merlin said, glaring at the flap of the ornate tent Arthur had taken from the craven Persian king at their last battle. Now, Arthur had taken his empire.

‘Or rather, that you will not allow me one,’ Arthur said, his voice lilted with amusement. ‘Come. I have conquered Asia, and all you can do is moan and whine.’

Merlin went to him. How could he not? His king compelled him. He lifted the chiton from the thick, golden body. Divine from afar, his flesh was marred with humanity up close – white-knitted battle scars, freshly-dried scabs, freshly-bloomed bruises. 

‘Take care of me,’ Arthur whispered to him.

He spread that thick, golden body across the coverlet of Tyrian purple; he admired the complement of their colours. He took and unstoppered the alabaster bottle beside the bed, poured the gleaming oil onto the stomach, and kneaded it into the broken skin.

By rights, this was the duty of a slave – or a squire. Merlin, however, had never learnt to share this pliant, compliant Arthur.

He worked the oil diligently along the heavy limbs. He rolled the generous pectorals – almost as fleshy as a woman’s breast – under his palms and watched the nestling nipples rise at his touch. He gave the half-interested penis a cursory swipe, enough to make it twitch into the crevice between torso and thigh, then rolled the thick, golden body over. From behind, Arthur’s planes spread beneath his fingers, and trailed downwards to his arse.

Merlin watched the fat crumple and fill beneath his clenching fingers. Arthur had moved his legs apart and rucked up his knees against the mattress. Wanton. Merlin spread the flesh, and gazed, gratified, at the little pink pucker there, nestled among wiry, tawny-yellow hairs.

There had been a time when Arthur’s hole had been difficult to open, once; a time when they had fumbled through indirect instructions that had tumbled from wine-slaked tongues in the barracks. Ten years on, and it parted more readily than even Arthur’s own skin would for the blade of a sword. Merlin admired how it blossomed and stretched around his fingers, pink and clinging through the thrusts. He held it apart and blew a puff into the pink within.

‘Merlin.’ Arthur, the side of his face crushed into the mattress, swollen mouth red and agape, sweat mingling with oil. Merlin took him then.

There was a wonder to it, to how Arthur – who had never relented, who had never been defeated, who had never surrendered in any of his battles – surrendered to this. How he abdicated control and offered himself so meekly to Merlin. A testament of his love and faith, one which never failed to temper Merlin’s wild lust with tenderness. He lay himself over Arthur and pistoned his pelvis, letting the ponderous pouch of his balls smack against the taint, and feeling the slippery drag and cling of Arthur’s rim over his cock. It felt familiar in a way Merlin felt certain no other anus possibly could, as though it had been moulded to accommodate him and him only. Given how Arthur had spent much of their puberty filling his arse with Merlin, perhaps it had been.

He loved the way Arthur ululated and undulated and unravelled from his ministrations, how the tension of battle and command seeped from his muscles. He loved how only he could do this to Arthur, how only his soul’s half could join with Arthur’s corresponding half. He loved how he could make Arthur shake apart with orgasm by simply rubbing relentlessly against the sensitive nub within, how he would follow with Arthur pulsating around him.

‘Achilles himself never had this,’ Arthur said sleepily. He nuzzled deeper into the fabrics of the bed and whined half-heartedly when Merlin pulled free. ‘All Asia, and his lover to share it.’

Merlin watched, briefly, the rise and dribble of his seed from that loosened hole – a fucked-out rose – before covering the thick, golden body with the purple and smoothing his hair. Let him have Asia. The one thing Merlin desired lay conquered here.

**Author's Note:**

> I've often felt that Merlin and Arthur are a sort of literary reincarnation of Hephaistion and Alexander, respectively.
> 
> Alexander was """very good friends""" with a man named Hephaistion. More recent scholarship have posited them as lovers. It is likely their relationship began as youths, as is common in most ancient Hellenistic cultures. They grew up together, compared themselves to Achilles and Patroclus, and conflated their identities. After Hephaistion's death, Alexander was stricken with overwhelming grief and died 8 months later.
> 
> Jeanne Reames (leading historian on Hephaistion), Mary Renault (author of the Alexander Trilogy), and Jared Leto (played Hephaistion in 2004 film Alexander) all think that Alexander was the "receptive partner" of that relationship.
> 
> Older scholarship on Hellenistic homoeroticism usually focuses on the relationship between an older "erastes" who performs intercrural sex on a younger "eronomenos". More recent academics (including Reames and Cartledge) argue that this view is too Athens-centric, and suggest that there were regional variations in the men's ages and/or sexual activities.
> 
> If you like the enemies-to-lovers trope then check out [my gf's gay novel](http://valeaida.tumblr.com/post/149576789996/an-elegy-info-post), illustrated by me!


End file.
